Good policing. And smart. Sometimes a hurt is too aggravated, and you can’t approach it directly. You have to find some indirect vector, just some random subject. Something a person geeks out over.

In college, I was part of an after school theatre program at a grade/middle school. There was this one kid, bit of a misfit, quiet, didn’t emote very much, head in a book a lot (usually about insects), or playing with plastic bugs.

One day, this kid got into a minor fight with another. It broke up quickly, but it was enough contact that it had him in tears, so he hid under a table. It was the time that this group had to change rooms. The kid stayed under the table. One of the high school students who volunteered, told the kid it was time to go. The high schooler got angrier and angrier, and sterner and sterner.

He wasn’t seeing what was happening. The kid didn’t like emoting big at the best of times. He absolutely did NOT want anyone seeing him crying. The problem was, he was not emoting this fear in any obvious way, so the high schooler took it as nonchalant challenging of his authority.

Luckily, misfits can smell their own. I told the high schooler to take five. I got on the floor and slid under the table. “Hi,” I said. I was just barely wise enough then to know not to talk about it directly. So…we talked bugs (because bugs are cool). I threw down on insect facts. He opened up like a factoid volcano. He knew his stuff. He went on and on (the way I had done, a shy/awkward kid, when someone knew to get me to open up with dinosaurs/vampires/animal facts).

For five or ten minutes, we sat under the table talking bugs. We never talked about the fight or the tears. Eventually, he looked up at me and asked, “Do I look OK?” (translation: “Does it look like I’ve been crying.”) I carefully looked him over and said he was good to go. And off he went to the next room.

Being able to directly confront a problem is an awesome skill. But sometimes a roundabout method is needed. Pay attention to what folk geek out over.

There is a writing exercise you might try over HERE. It takes a George Ella Lyon poem, “Where I’m from,” and turns it into a sort of advanced ad-libs, where by you fill in some info and describe the places/people/events that formed you. My attempt is featured below. If you try your hand at it, post the result in the comments. I’d like to see where you’re from.

I am from the goblin roads, by the bog, where early A.M. mists tickle hands hanging out passenger windows, a thousand degrees colder than the surrounding summer night—from Dunkin’ Donuts coffee and the grinnin’ skull-bead bracelets my mother makes for me.

I am from the house with the shrieking-turquoise garage door, the tropical biosphere interior, impossible anomaly of the Midwest—waxen, Vincent Price sideshow bedroom—glamour photography by dad. From the wooded, backyard deck, the iron fire pit, listening to audio fiction, punctuated by coyote calls that sound like the second, fifth, and ninth steps of going insane.

I am from the whispering leaves, the groans-by-night corn.

I am from Jack O’ Lanterns picked fresh from the patch, at Great Grandma and Grandpa’s farm and playing card games by candlelight through tornado warnings, from my father, Mark the Magician; and my mother, Renee the Potter; and my brother, Nick the Pirate; and my sister, Danielle the Scream Queen—and every cross-hatched eccentricity—Bradford to Bradford—Doetsch by Doetsch.

I am from photographing gators in the Glades of Ever and walking ghost tours in Key West, which is really Cayo Hueso, which is really “Island of Bones,” which is really full of t-shirt shops and frozen drinks.

From the prayers to St. Anthony to find all things lost and the chewed stubs of the whole carrots left out for Santa’s reindeer the night before.

I am from the Catholic cross, the confessional, the Body and Blood. And then from the rum prayers, the happy macabre, the sugar skulls that hummed voodoo hymns to me on every Caribbean pilgrimage.

I’m from October Country, Chicago’s shadow, and Ray Bradbury dreams remixed—pumpkin pie and double-decker pizza that was divine until the restaurant owner was knifed by her son.

From the great grandparents, Lord and Lady of the Patch, who contrived a big sleep of exhaust, in a car in a parking lot—when their minds and bodies began to go—together forever, and the other great grandma, Mima, who was a writer, who told me to write, who died while I was away, waking to our van surrounded by bison in Yellowstone.

I am from inside my head, where I hang it all so prettily upon my hueso walls.

That pet shop—barely a memory fragment from boyhood—filthy cages crammed with improbable combinations of species—the amphibians choking on the toxic cage mates they tried to swallow—the dust-mote cage with the cockatiel missing a wing, the round wound staring at me like an angry, red eye.

And suddenly that memory is useful. I didn’t know it, but I was training then. You spend your whole life training, only you don’t bend the training to fit a fixed job, you bend the job to fit the training.

It was in a box. I forget the exact image of the box—maybe a cigar box—full of those things that seem like treasures to a boy. He took out a pocket knife and gave it to me. Over twenty years and 4,000 miles later, it is still with me, in Oslo.

I’m looking at it now. But that’s not really the start…

My mom’s father, my grandfather, known through my childhood as Papa, died a few weeks ago.

My family made the drive to Florida for the funeral. I wasn’t able to get back across the ocean to attend. I feel bad about this. From here, it all feels cold and distant and strange. I can only Skype and email and remember.

I remember the house. Many visits stamped it into my mind—Homestead, Florida—the southern tip—where the eye of Hurricane Andrew hit years ago.

I remember the road there—the fade out of town to groves and farms—the fruit market on the corner. I remember the fence. They grew fruit trees inside. I remember the various iterations of the pack of watchdogs and Bruno, who always had it in for me, and Bowser who was the biggest and never knew it (am I confusing names already?…maybe it was King—King was the biggest, but Bowser picked on King). I remember bump-thump rides in the back of the pickup truck (sometimes with the dogs).

I remember the thick, humid smell of the place—palm-fruit-dog-reptile—hanging with Nanny and Papa when my parents went to the Keys. I remember all the rooms—the spooky, haunted mansion board game (with audio), narrated by “the ghostly host, Sir Simon Meeks” and how it gave me the name for the protagonist of my first novel, but I didn’t know that at the time.

I remember Papa giving me my first real beer with the adults, many years before my legal age. Governments mean well and all (maybe), but in matters of libation, I differ to the law of Papa. I don’t remember the brand of beer. It was spanish. [*NOTE: This is not counting a beer drinking incident when I was four years old and passed out drunk—that is another story—but one that earned me some drinking respect from some of the Norse folk out here.]

I remember the EVERGLADES—second, wild home, primordial womb—I did a lot of developing there. So many trips with various family members (just minutes from Nanny and Papa’s house). So many day-long wildlife photography outings with Dad. Water and mangroves and bluesy reptile mating croons—the huge, wading birds, egrets and herons—the belching of pig frogs—large apple snails and the birds of prey that eat them—and alligators, alligators, alligators.

Some of my earliest memories are of alligators. I cannot recall a time I was ever afraid of them (though I do have a fuzzy memory of being yanked and hoisted away after getting too close to one). I remember the deep bellow of adults and the high-pitched chirp of the babies (meaning some idiot had harassed them, even though Mama Gator is never far away, if not always visible).

Alligators were always special to me. They were my concession, from the Maker, for never getting to see a live dinosaur.

I remember each and every Florida panther that I never saw.

The Everglades is a Mesozoic soup, and I took many ladlefuls growing up.

I remember the front door that was never really a front door, always sealed, and the front yard that was never a front yard—everything coming in and out happened at the back patio, which was never a back patio, but a the welcoming entrance (later with pool).

I remember the way feeding time for the dog pack smelled.

I remember wielding my electronic Captain Power jet ship and blasting at the interactive video in the living room.

I remember the gigantic cactus that only bloomed at night and going out to photograph the frogs that dwelt there.

I remember apple bananas.

I remember the Godzilla movies that Papa recorded to VHS tapes, whenever they happened to be on TV, mailing them all the way up to Chicagoland. I recall the newspaper clippings he mailed whenever there was a story that had anything to do with Godzilla (because he knew I’d be interested).

But all and still and I still feel bad about not being there for the funeral. I know everyone understands, but it feels like I’m not taking part in whatever ritual I should be taking part in. I’m not there for the official service—not there getting back in touch with the side of the family that I don’t get to keep in as much touch with as I would like—not there talking with everyone till 3 in the AM about memories of Papa and the house in the grove—not there helping to clean up said house n’ grove to get ready to put up for sale. This last revelation is a bit depressing as it dawns on me that I’ll never get to say goodbye to the old place (and it’s an important place in my experience).

I did get a Skype session with the gathered family. My second skype session did not happen due to techno-problems. Instead I got a phone call. Later that night, my phone would ring again and wake me up. I answered, but got no reply, as my Dad’s phone must have accidentally called me from inside his pocket. I could hear everyone gathered and talking and it was five or ten minutes before I realized I’d just been sitting there, listening.

It still feels distant, cold, and surreal from here, and I don’t think it’s supposed to, like I’m not digesting something I should.

Found the very first complete short story I ever wrote (titled “The Emerald Green Glow”) from early on in high school (if you don’t count the allegorical story I wrote in grade school in place of the essay that the teacher assigned as punishment to the whole class, because a few students were talking—the story stressed how unfair this was, replacing human students with anthropomorphic raccoons…though I did not know what “anthropomorphic” meant at the time).

Found a manilla envelope I received from one of my favorite college teaches (Dr. Logsdon). I don’t actually recall how this envelope was delivered to me as the only address reads:

Found a letter I once got from Dee, accompanying her Christmas gift to me: a signed headshot and a lock of her hair—because in a prior conversation she asked what the most egotistical gift an actress could give someone and that was my answer.

Found a letter from the Peoria Health Department that had warned me that my meningitis vaccination was a from a bad batch and didn’t offer “full protection” and listed all the high risk countries (which included every African country I had been to). I received this letter several months after visiting Africa. I had a long laugh.

Found my first writing contract.

Found a Valentine’s day card from Genenda.

Found a bit of flattery…once upon a time, my grad school writing class was assigned to pair up and write a fake blurb that might appear on the dust jacket of your partner’s supposed novel. This was written by the very lovely Joanna Beth Tweedy Willmore:

“Like Mesmer, the last name Doetsch may well become eponymous for the author’s ability to draw readers into worlds from which they may find it happily impossible to return. Joshua Alan invites readers to the outer edge of surrealism where horror, mythology, stand-up, and Mother Angelica won’t agree to meet, but metabolize in a fantastical and satisfying gumbo. You don’t have a hair on your rumpus if you’re not hipwaggin’ it to be the first in line for the next ladle full.”

[NOTE: Joanna actually uses words like “rumpus” and “hipwaggin’” and phrases like “cicada cadence” and is such a thorough delight that she glows in the dark.]

Found the printed rules for Vampire Tag.

Found my and Nick’s beer-pong champion certificate. We are mighty in the art of drunken pong.

Found a raggedy Andy sort of a doll that my godmother made me when I was born. It’s as old as I am. This makes me nervous as I’m not sure at what point a doll gains sentience…

Found a box of Magnum XL condoms and a box of razors—props for the magic act Nick and I did for a burlesque show. The items on my shopping list, that day, included magnum condoms, razors, a banana, bikini briefs, lemons, and a few other items. The checkout girl watched me with very wide eyes (probably wondering what I had planned for that night).

Found several abstracts—some I quickly pocketed—some fluttered away—one got caught in a spiderweb trying to fly out my window…

And some days I stare off into the stratosphere and think to myself, Thank God I’m not allergic to peanuts.Peanut butter would be a too, too delicious suicide.

And I had my birthday over the weekend and I’m another year more clever and 360 days cuter.

Humans travel in time in a unique way.We go a whole year being one age – when you’re 27, you are 27 (with no variance) for the whole year, up to the day before your birthday.And then, BAM, in one day you age a year.Time manipulation: slow-fast-slow-fast.That’s the dance.Repeat until exhausted . . . but flourish often (trust me).

I had a fun weekend.I petted a shark and a stingray.I had my fortune told to me by a mechanical gypsy.I ran into a tame raccoon in a tunnel.I saw the museum of mischief and madness.I squeezed into a photo booth with two lovely ladies for pictures.I saw exotic insects.I slept in the grass by a pond because the Art Museum was closed and we had time to kill.I saw a stage play version of Plan 9 From Outer Space (it was most excellent).

All the above was accomplished in St. Louis, where two of my favorite females, Genenda and Torrie, celebrated with me.We went to a theatre’s garage sale, the City Museum (the most unique museum I’ve ever been to…I recommend it), The Zoo (which is free in St. Louis), the Art Museum (free as well…but closed when we got there), and finally the Plan 9 play at the Magic Smoking Monkey Theatre (I think that’s the name of the group).

Lots of driving this weekend, I passed the time listening to American Gods, by Neil Gaiman, on audio and had the strange, surreal experience of driving through the places mentioned in the book as the protagonist traveled to many of the same places that I passed through…right down to driving over the Big Muddy River.

And to top it all off, I got to celebrate my Goddaughter, Reese’s first birthday at Chuckee Cheeses.She’s an adorable and very happy kid.Sky-Ball should be an Olympic sport.

And, finally, since Saturday marked the anniversary of my birth, and because I happen to have gotten the digital version of a lot of old photos, I thought I’d embarace myself by posting a few of them up where just a few dozen of my most personal friends (and any internet lurkers) could view them.So . . . if you dare . . . travel back in TIME . . .

YIKES!!! OK…that’s probably too far back in time. Oh well. Here I am, seconds after being born, at home.

Here I ham giving some of my first literary criticisms…

And forward in time . . .

Me crawling around…with a Damien sort of a hair cut,

Yeah, my Spiderman fixation goes way back.

Me and my little brother.

I believe that’s me and my little sister.

Nick and I: so adorable…you’ll puke…

First day of school…

People are sometimes perplexed by my near obsessive like of Halloween. But I think it stretches back to good memories…very early on:

And if you still don’t understand…read more Ray Bradbury (he understands why Halloween is important).

Incidentally, those pumpkins are from a pumpken patch that my Great Grandparents had on their farm when they were alive. We’d go there and pick pumpkins every Halloween.

And this picture is photographic proof, PROOF that I was doing the pirate thing long before the Disney movies (though I may not have been drinking rum just then…).

Wow….I was cool…yeah…

And here, my brother, sister, and I are going through that milestone that every family goes through: being eaten by King Kong.

Nick and I, some where, at some point in time.

Here I am doing my civic duty and holding up the arches in Utah.

I’m about to go sky diving here. And yes, those straps near the crotch…they hurt…

Here, Nick and I performed a magic show in high school. That’s our principal. We shoved a flaming torch through his head for the finale.

My brother, dad, and I doing some wildlife photography in the Florida Everglades (in 98′ I believe).

Here’s a Halloween with my cousin Steve, Nick, and I (5 or six years back). That’s right…we were still trick or treating in college…but we entertained people with magic tricks and strange behavior, so it was alright.